


David Rose's Notebook

by fairmanor



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: David Rose Deserves Nice Things, Developing Relationship, Epistolary, Established Relationship, Gap Filler, Just little bits of David in between as many episodes as I can think of, M/M, Notebook, Pre-Schitt's Creek, Writing, diary writing, i just have a lot of feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:22:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27610639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairmanor/pseuds/fairmanor
Summary: The notebook that turns up at David’s door isn’t at all what he was told to expect from the artist who had forewarned David of a gift the morning after the last night of the show at his gallery. Apparently, David and Othello (God, that’s his actual name, David kept reminding himself with a poorly hidden smirk) had very different definitions of what constituted “a little thank you”.Sometimes, David thinks so much that he can't talk. And when he can't talk, he writes.OR, the story of David's little black notebook, and a processing of David's life & emotions through it.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44





	David Rose's Notebook

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the deal, folks. It's currently 1am. I've cracked this out with absolutely no further plans and no intentions. I'm simply going to write until I'm done and see what I come up with. If I wake up in the morning and decide I don't like it anymore, then hey ho.

Tuesday, August 13th, 2013

* * *

The notebook that turns up at David’s door isn’t at all what he was told to expect from the artist who had forewarned David of a gift the morning after the last night of the show at his gallery. Apparently, David and Othello ( _God_ , _that’s his_ actual _name_ , David kept reminding himself with a poorly hidden smirk) had very different definitions of what constituted “a little thank you”.

What he had been expecting were some fancy BRRCH flowers or a case of those weird edible water pouches. Those were the kinds of things artists left at his door as a mandatory pleasantry after their shows closed at the gallery. If they were different people, in a different world, then David supposed those things would equate to cheap roses and store-brand chocolates.

What David had not been expecting, wrapped up in what looked like gold-flaked gossamer, was a notebook that was way out of even his price range. A notebook he’d been coveting for years. And he knew it was years, because this particular notebook had been in singular production of a luxury craftsmanship company for many decades before David was born. It’s a collector’s piece, this thing. 

And one day, when it’s curled and battered and rubbed smooth at the edges, he will remember the first time he laid eyes on it after he pulled away the silky wrapping paper that he made a mental note to repurpose for his mother’s Christmas present. He’ll remember the sight of it, fresh and pressed and smelling of smoky, woodsy authenticity. The leather, somehow shiny and matte at the same time, and the pages so densely packed David wonders at first if he'll ever be able to pry the thing open.

It takes David half an hour to dare to pick it up. Then it takes him two weeks to actually write anything in it. He had to track down an Aurora fountain pen first. Anything else would simply be incorrect.

He sits down at the breakfast bar in the kitchen of his apartment and opens the notebook slowly, cringing at the slightest cracking of the spine. He smooths down the first page and dips his fountain pen carefully, cautious not to overfill the nib, and sets it against the page. The contrast of white-on-black reminds him of the dips and slants of the apartment behind him, whose ceiling he still catches his head on all these years later.

This is the first entry. It has to be perfect. It can’t just be _something._ It can’t just be _anything._

David thinks for a long, long time about what he’s going to write. He refills the pen a couple of times, sets it against the page, stands up and circles his apartment. Looks out of the window for inspiration. Thinks about what Sebastien would say. Then very promptly _stops_ thinking about what Sebastien would say.

Something he’ll look back on and marvel at his own profundity, his own significance, his –

Shit.

Oh, _shit._

In the quiet of his apartment, David lets out a long, frustrated groan. In his waiting, the oversaturated pen dripped a single splotch of ink onto the page. It’s now rolling down the fancy deckled paper, leaving a tight, tear-thin trail in its wake. It’s a testament to how dry the pages are that they soak the moisture up quicker than David can even register that his very first entry is ruined.

He stares at the page for a moment, horrified, before moving to rip it out. Then something like instinct stops him. Ripping out one page of this thing would probably be a bigger waste of money than dripping ink over every single inch of it.

After a while of staring, David sighs. Somewhere in the distance, a siren blares. New York and the rest of the world is doing its usual annoying thing of moving on around him, while he sits at a breakfast bar at three in the morning and agonises over a splotch of ink. A _splotch of ink._

Whatever. He’d have reprimanded himself no matter what he would have written, anyway.

In a way, this _is_ his first entry, he thinks, finally closing the book and taking it with him to bed, tucking it into his beside cabinet and closing it with the combination lock he got installed last winter after he caught the woman he was seeing at the time rooting through it in the night.

Oh well.

At least it’s authentic.


End file.
